Eternal Silence
by Finni
Summary: [COMPLETE] In the lonely snow, Tristan looks back upon the past and realizes where home really lies. "'The clouds are crying,' he said. Together, even Arthur, they looked up. An endless midnight ribbon that streaked high above..."


**Title:** Eternal Silence  
**Written by: ** Finni  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Genre**: Angst  
**Summary:** In the lonely snow, Tristan looks back upon the past and realizes where home really lies.   
**Disclaimer:** Recognizable scenes, quotes, clothing designs, and characters © Touchstone Pictures.

**Author's note:** In this fic, I use the name "Tristran" instead of Tristan. Why? One, because even though the movie credits spelled his name Tristan, as well as on the site and such, if you listen carefully during the movie, it was indeed, pronounced "Tristran". That, and the book was written with Tristran through the whole thing and I like Tristran better. And spoilers for people who haven't seen the movie yet but are reading fanfiction about it for some reason.

As a writer who usually writes original character fanfiction, I found writing canon stuff rather difficult. So please excuse the fact that I put movie scenes in written form a lot.

* * *

It was a weird feeling he felt every time he rode off alone - which was quite often, making it additionally peculiar that the strange loneliness that crept up his back like a cold winter chill still bothered him a good deal. The past twelve years had been spent serving the Roman Empire, fighting and killing for no cause that his keen eyesight could see into the future. And through the events that passed, he had grown accustomed to the endless days of bloodshed and pointless slaughter. Sure, the savage act of killing had become almost an art, but his life was missing something.

Tristran urged his horse to slow to a trot, its hooves sounding soft as the two trudged through the first few inches of freshly fallen snow. Each individual flake floated slowly from the sky towards the cold ground and covered his cloak and messy hair with specks of frozen white. Vigilant for any signs of movement but finding none, he let his mind wander to the distant land that young Galahad always called 'home'.

Home was too far away in his memory. He would have to carve his path through his actions and his sins before he could see the light of freedom again. Tristran wasn't noble. His commander, Arthur, was the one regarded as righteous and brave – willing to do whatever was in his power to set things right. But what was he? He was a killing machine; someone who, when given the order, would take the life of another without as much as a sweat.

Would it matter if he never returned home? Would anyone even care?

Sometimes, he thought, it was pleasant to enjoy a bit of solace, alone where no one could see or hear him. To just inhale the fresh metallic taste of blood, to watch the snow fall, or to hear the wolves cry. But other times, his duty was the most painful one there could be. Whereas the other knights stood together and became friends with one another, Tristran had only nature to befriend.

He became lost in his own world when the sharp cry of his hawk broke the frozen silence. He had almost forgotten that his job as a scout was to look out for dangers and make sure the road was clear. There was nothing here except an endless white. Holding out a heavily gloved hand, his hawk landed swiftly on his arm and he scratched under her chin, welcoming her company. Grabbing his reins in one hand, Tristran rode in the silence to report back to Arthur.

* * *

Fourteen knights sat around a campfire that night, mirroring their places at the Round Table. The wretched British weather had turned from snowy to just a cold, humid fog – which really wasn't that much of an improvement – and each knight remained in silence, staring at the engulfing flames.

"Knights," Arthur began, his voice tinted with remorse. "Our mission has not yet been completed. We have to press onwar-"

"We know, Arthur," replied Lancelot, impatient. It had taken him several years together before Lancelot felt comfortable addressing his commander as Arthur. Tristran recalled how Lancelot was so vapid and stolid when he first arrived, as if everything he was doing was pure dread. It probably was, but he wouldn't be going anywhere with that sort of attitude. As for Tristran, he simply avoided the entire situation by choosing not to speak unless spoken to.

"I think we all need some time," Gawain said, breaking the odd silence. "Nobody expected things to come out this way."

Gareth, with one hand wiping the caked blood off his dagger's leather sheath, added, "Nobody wants to see the death of your own comrades in a battle so senselessly bloody." The other knights said nothing, but all agreed.

"We rode to the northeastern parts expecting something like a bit of resistance from Woads to clear up," said Bors, anger steadily rising. "Instead, we've lost three of our own blood!"

The tallest, Conavere, suddenly stood. "Arthur, you're a Roman. How much do we mean to the Empire? As mere knights? Pagan knights, at that!"

Sighing, Arthur responded, "I've told you before, I'll never question where your religious beliefs stand."

"But your Rome does!" He threw the small dagger he was playing with onto the ground in anger. "And because of that, we are lowly and incompetent! People of _our _religion are treated like dogs while people of your God are practically gods themselves! So, how much does it mean to them when one of us dies?!"

Arthur remained silent.

"We mean nothing," Lancelot answered tersely on his commander's behalf. Slowly, he drew the words out again, each time gritting his teeth at realizing the naked truth. "We. Mean. Nothing."

Tristran leaned back against the root of a dead tree, whose trunk was slowly decaying into the rich soil below. That was how the wilderness worked. A creature is born, a creature lives, and a creature dies. And when it dies, its particles are decomposed back into the earth to help nourish the new generation that was to come. In a sense, that was what they, as knights, were doing – but in some evil, twisted way. They were killing and slaughtering so that a new generation of _Romans_ would be able to live in nourishment. Not their own people. No – if they lived to have children, their sons would only be forced to serve the same fifteen years of the hell they were now trapped in. There wasn't single knight who had not cursed their forefathers for not dying in honor of protecting their land.

But the future pope, the bishops, and the leaders of the church would live in their luxuries. Everything was centered on the church; of course, because the pope was a messenger of God Himself.

...What god?

To all the knights, the God that Arthur so lovingly believed in did not exist for them. If there truly was a God, they would not be where they were now. This "God" would not subject his "children" to something as horrible as this. The wisdom of the wolves and the power of the horse were what really existed.

"You know," started Hans, "I remember when I was young, my mother used to tell me stories of how brave my great-grandfather was. About how he dropped everything and rode his horse all the way from the southern end bordering Rome to our village to warn us of what was coming."

"My father used to sit with me at night and point at the stars," said Conavere, nostalgic. "He told me that no matter what happened, the stars would always be in the sky to comfort me." He laughed dryly to himself. "Then he told me that I'd be serving in the Roman military for fifteen years and I ran away from home for a month."

The other knights laughed nervously as well, and when the false happiness died, Conavere said earnestly, "You hardly see the stars at night here on this island."

"Blame it on the blasted weather," Gawain responded.

As if on cue, a sudden roar of thunder crashed in the distance, and the pitter patter of rain started to rattle without pause. Bors swore loudly at Gawain and everyone rushed to get a large cloak to try and keep himself as warm as possible. The large fire that once roared slowly died down in the rain, until it was finally extinguished to a pale wisp of smoke as the rain fell harder. Tristran looked up at the sky, squinting to try and keep the water from blurring his vision.

"The clouds are crying," he said. Together, even Arthur, they looked up. An endless midnight ribbon that streaked high above, decorated with a single speckle of diamond, was the only thing that returned their gaze. Empty as their hearts were.

"I can't wait to be free again," Gareth said quietly.

Tristran closed his eyes for a moment and let the cold drops of rain fall, trying to drown out the silent sound of knights longing for freedom. What would he do if the day came for him? He could think of nothing but to leave that decision to if the time came.

_"Father?"_

_"What is it?"_

_"When I leave, will you still remember me?"_

_"Fifteen years is a long time, Tristran, but I'll never forget you as long as you never forget me. You're my sweet boy and nothing can change that."_

_"Your mother is right, Tristran. No matter what happens, we're still family."_

_"We're going to miss you a lot."_

Tristran shook his head, confused at the sudden recall of a memory he didn't know existed. Befuddled, he stood and left the circle to find some solitude of his own. His mind was a blur and he couldn't bring himself to think straight. Nothing really mattered to him at that moment. The rest of the knights probably would never miss his company anyhow. As he trudged through the watery mud, he found shelter under a thick pine tree and stayed there until the rain lightened.

_"Mother, I think I've forgotten."_

Three years later, only half the men who sat at that fire were alive to glimpse freedom.

* * *

"I don't like it. Rome." Galahad practically spat out the words from his mouth in disgust. As the youngest of those who remained, the image of home was the clearest in his mind and he missed it the most. "He's here to discharge us – why doesn't he just give us our papers?"

Bors and Gawain laughed heartily. "Is this your happy face?" joked Gawain, referring to the joy he should be feeling about their almost-to-be freedom. A wide grin crept onto Galahad's face. "Galahad, do you still not know the Romans?" continued Gawain in a mildy amused tone. Everyone seemed lighthearted at their assurance their freedom was waiting. "They don't scratch their asses without first holding a ceremony." Bors let out a low chuckle.

"Why don't you just kill him," Bors said, practically smirking. "And discharge yourself after?" The knights were trotting on their horses after returning to Hadrian's wall, escorting the Bishop to safer grounds. It was like another day, really. Killing, slaughter, and by nightfall, left with nothing but splatters of blood to stain one's face.

Galahad was silent only for a moment, until he responded in disgust, "I don't kill for pleasure." He leered in Tristran's direction. "Unlike some."

"Well, you should try it someday, you might get a taste for it," Tristran responded, words not often spoken. Tristran smiled half-crookedly as Bors and Gawain laughed, but Tristran didn't think they really understood what he meant. Was that really what the life of a knight had become? Gaining pleasure from the act of killing?

"It's part of you. It's in yer blood," retorted Bors, noting young Galahad's denial of the kind of person he had become. It was true – one could never be born a killer, but only slowly shaped into one through the act of doing so. What had they all done in the past fifteen years? How many brothers have they lost to war?

Gawain continued to snicker quietly to himself and Galahad laughed nervously but backed with anger. "N-no-no. No. As of tomorrow, this was all just a bad memory."

Tristran looked away when Galahad said this. Would it really be a memory? Would fifteen years of his life just be a shadow of the past? What would any of them been like without these fifteen years of fighting? Fifteen years! Years that built his character, his deadliness, his life? His silence? His loneliness?

Noticing that Gawain had suddenly fallen quiet, Tristran inconspicuously listened to the other knight's chatter. "I've often thought what going home would mean like after all this. What will I do?" Tristran envied how the others could think about such things. They all missed home and they all wanted their freedom. But what kind of home would you return to? Have they even heard from their parents or relatives the entire stretch of time they've been stationed on this island? "Stiffer for Galahad, I have been in this life longer than the other. So much for home – it's not so clear in my memory."

What he spoke was true. There was no home that was clear in his mind. His mind was too full of sins to hold anything else. And every void that was not filled with sin was filled with forlorn. There was no room for love, no room for hate, no room for happiness nor regret. There was no room for fear.

And in that sense, he did not fear death. Death was a part of nature; just as every creature is born, every creature dies. It had been experienced so many times and committed even more that he figured there was no reason to fear death. Death was simply the end, and everyone, eventually, reaches a conclusion.

The knights started talking mindlessly about what they would do when they returned home. He was still listening, but the words did not reach him any further. They smiled and laughed – a rare sight to see, especially for the arrogant Lancelot. And for a moment there, Tristran wanted to ask them what they would do if the home they thought they would return to did not exist. But he held his words and kept them to himself, riding behind the others and patiently waiting for any signs of his hawk in the cloudless sky.

* * *

Singing often did very little to Tristran, but it was different that night. Every knight who stood there felt it. There was something in the words, in the song, even in the air that made them feel as if their souls had been suppressed for a time so long it was unbearable to withstand it any longer. Every knight became so human, so simple; like a lost child who has lost his way home. They imagined pictures in their minds of their families when they last saw them; their siblings and fathers and the life they could, but never had. Tristran looked in his mind and tried to remember.

He couldn't quite recall what his father's face was like – it had been too long. He remembered his warm scent and the pain on his face when Tristran left for his post. He tried to picture his village, his mother... but could find nothing. Looking up, he saw silent tears fall from some's faces – a longing for home – but Tristran tried not to think much more of it.

Only a few minutes later did their longing become a desperate need.

Gawain and Galahad stared at Arthur, expecting him to reveal that it was all just a bad joke.

But somehow, the final mission did not come as too much of a surprise to Tristran. He knew since the suspicious arrival of the Bishop that something was going to go wrong. Instinct told him. He stood in a ring with the other knights around Arthur; Dagonet, like Tristran, stood silent beside him. Slicing and eating his apple as Arthur informed them of the perilous journey that lay ahead, Tristran replayed their song of home in his mind.

Everyone was furious.

"Every knight here has laid his life on the line for you," Bors spat, half drunk. "For you. And instead of freedom you want more blood? Our blood!?" He paused for a tense moment. "You think more of Roman blood than you do of ours?!"

"Bors, these are our orders," Arthur replied with a stern face. He always seemed so serious. "When we return, your freedom will be waiting fo-"

"I'm a free man! **I will choose my own fate!**" shouted Bors in Arthur's face. Tristran had never seen such anger spout from the strong knight, even after a bloody battle. But what fate awaited him? Only death, as far as Tristran could see.

"Yeah yeah, we're all going to die someday," Tristran finally spoke. "If it's death by a Saxon hand that frightens you –" He looked up and narrowed his eyes like a hawk. With half a mouthful of apple, he said sharply, "Stay home."

Galahad lost total control. "WELL IF YOU'RE SO EAGER TO DIE, YOU CAN DIE RIGHT HERE-"

It took Lancelot to physically divide between Galahad and Tristran to keep Galahad from attempting to slice Tristran's head off. But Tristran didn't budge; he only continued to eat as if nothing had happened.

"Enough, enough," Lancelot tried to say, restraining Galahad. But that didn't stop him.

"**I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR**!" He shouted. Galahad's expression remained livid, but Tristran then only had two words running through his mind that he so desperately wanted to ask.

_...Do you?_

* * *

He was alone again, in the snow, but this time on a far more dangerous task. And even though the dangers of war threatened him on every side, he could not stop thinking about home.

He had come to a conclusion. His home was the battlefield- he had nowhere else to go. His life had been fighting and killing and nothing else that he could even remember. There was no home to go to. There was no point to try and find some place that he was born and was raised until the Romans took him away. He couldn't even remember his own family – would they remember him? Perhaps his father had a new wife and with that new woman, with more sons and children to replace this one he lost.

Tristran lead his horse carefully off the path to avoid being seen, shaking off snow from the trees to look like fresh powder had covered the tracks he left. When it looked as if nothing was disturbed for a good meter or two, he tied his horse to a tree, confident no one would notice it, while he scouted onward by foot. He made sure one hand hovered over his curved blade at all times. Seeing nothing suspicious as of yet, he relaxed for a moment and let the cold chill of the mountain air sink in.

Maybe this was where he was destined to live. Perhaps, after he was discharged from the Roman Empire, he would go join the Sarmatian cavalry and fight. And of course, his years of experience as a scout would prove useful in the future. But it was really a lonely life, and only resulted to shape a man into a callous machine like he had become. At that moment, Tristran would have called for his hawk if he didn't hear indistinct voices behind him.

"I could have sworn there was a horse here," a rough voice grumbled.

"You were probably just seeing things," urged another voice, this one softer and laced with fear. "You know what Cerdic does to those who disobey his orders."

Tristran cursed silently for not making sure that he appeared concealed to all four directions before he departed on foot. Footsteps light, he hid behind a large tree, watching the two men in large, dark furs wander around aimlessly, getting closer and closer towards his direction. His heart was pounding so furiously that he was afraid they would hear its beating. To his relief, they started to venture back to where they came from. Feeling that the coast was clear, Tristran slowly edged forward to untie the reins of his horse.

It all happened in a blur. He only stepped one foot down when he heard those voices yelling. And in the blink of an eye, Tristran swerved his head to the right to narrowly miss being decapitated with a flying arrow. Instinct took over as Tristran swiftly pulled his bow from its holster, strapped on his horse, and pulled back two arrows launched in the powerful Sarmatian weapon. Knowing there were only two targets, he aimed at an imaginary dot he saw between the two dark figures and let his arrows fly. True to his aim, both pierced through the thick overcoats of the Saxon soldiers and they fell over, screaming.

Fearing their yells would echo through the mountain passes and cause suspicion to rise in the army they must have been a part of; Tristran waded through the thick snow to the two fallen bodies. Without even flinching, he unsheathed his curved sword and slit their vocal boxes as a means of quieting their gargled cries. The white snow became instantly stained with tiny rivers of crimson. Tristran was about to track their footsteps when a compact but sturdy-looking crossbow caught his eye. He bent over to inspect it carefully.

Tristran swore to himself again. By the look of the tightened string and handle shape, he could only come to one conclusion: armor piercing. If the entire army was equipped with weapons such as these, he knew Arthur and the rest of the knights wouldn't last very long against them unless they had some sort of advantage. He picked up the Saxon's weapon and placed it where his bow usually sat. Mounting his horse, he carried his bow in one hand in case he was to run into more trouble. A frigid, distant cry of a familiar hawk rang overhead, and Tristran knew it meant she had found something. As fast as he could, he chased by land his hawk flying by air.

When he finally reached an overhanging cliff, he was overcome with disbelief. An entire army of thousands, marching across the mountain trail like flies on decaying manure. The Saxons were gaining on them, and fast. Tristran quietly turned around and, as his hawk landed on his left arm with ease, raced back to camp as fast as he could possibly manage.

By the time he returned to camp, he knew something was going on. People were awake at barely dawn, and there was a loud clamoring. Furthermore, the female Woad they had rescued was wielding a bow and arrow, and there was a man on the frozen ground, dead, with an arrow penetrated through his heart. Even so, Tristran knew that Arthur would be able to handle the situation – and by the looks of it, Lancelot was backing his commander as well. But only he knew of the dangers that followed.

Riding over to Arthur, who had his sword drawn and stern eyes fixed on the dead Marius, he threw the dangerous crossbow at Arthur's feet. Still trying to catch his breath, he managed to half whisper, half speak, "Armor piercing. They're close; we have no time."

Arthur looked up at Tristran and knew that the end was coming.

* * *

A sickening stab and a piercing pain – something he'd never felt before.

Tristran had only felt the pain for a brief moment before everything started turning hazy and numb. He had looked the Saxon straight in the eye and now, what had come of it? A dagger stabbed into the very bone of his right forearm, rendering not only his sword skills, but also functionality of his right arm useless. Outmaneuvered, outmatched – he had fought a battle not meant for him. And through the numbness and the heavy smell of blood mist in the air, Tristran tried to push forward, to stand, to lift his face up from the infested mud; to fight until the very end.

He wormed forward pathetically as the ruthless Saxon stood behind him, capable of controlling his every move. He tried not to look to his right – at the grotesque wound that ate at his arm.

It was so pitiful, imagining to himself what he must have looked like then; crawling through the muddied ground like a slave on his hands and knees. Failing to struggle away from his enemy, he felt a rough hand grab his hair back in excruciating pain, forcing him to stand when his muscles could no longer sustain his weight. The Saxon did not even look at him. Tristran only saw a faded glimpse of the battlefield one last time before a deep slash sliced through the skin and tissue of his ribcage. He would have screamed, but found that he could not. The pain was sharp but slowly faded to the distance, as if he were watching someone else fall to the ground in defeat.

He could move no longer. There he was; lying on his back, eagle-spread, and trying to ignore everything until death finally claimed him.

Looking up at the smoke-ridden sky, he looked further and tried to smile in comfort. At the very least, he walked into this battle of his own free will. At the very least, he was going to die a free man. He realized this, for what he saw high above was a clear, light blue sky filled with hope for a future that he would not live to see. A few moments later, his hawk flew overhead, knowing what had happened. It was an ephemeral moment; hazy, unclear, and lasting no longer than a few mere seconds, but Tristran saw. It was a future of Arthur, and he wished for a moment he could have said a few words before the time had come. But he wasn't afraid.

And therefore, he could only recite the thought to himself as he fell into eternal silence.

_"So this is death."_

-end-

**Author's note:** Please help me improve by leaving a review! I've never written many fantasy-related fics, even though I absolutely adore it. You've made it this far down already anyhow And besides, leaving reviews makes me happy


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